


Apologize

by A_lee_us



Series: American Tragedy [5]
Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Abilities & Superpowers, Gen, One Shot, Quick Read, ghost hunters au, sarcastic narration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-01 04:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13286601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_lee_us/pseuds/A_lee_us
Summary: Everyone looks up to the most bad-assed band of ghost-hunters around. Respect fucking follows them everywhere like a bitch.Unfortunately for me, since people love to hold them in such high regard, I'm continuously trailing after them like a dog. I mean, I'm the fucking emotion of respect, after all.But this is no story about me, me and me. It is a story about them and their daily saving-the-world bullshit. This is also a story about them dealing with the universe with ten middle fingers raised.Or;Hollywood Undead hunts ghosts and the members are completely unapologetic about being themselves.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so, I wrote this back last year and wanted it to be a long, multi-chap fic about HU being bad added ghost hunters, journalling their misadventures. But then all this BS descended upon me and I don't have the time to follow through so here's it as a one-shot. 
> 
> I might pick up and continue the series in future. Who knows.
> 
> I'm also skipping the update of Hear Me Now tomorrow. I really don't have the time or energy... it's very hectic right now.

PREFACE

Everyone respects someone else unless they themself are a jackass. 

I mean, what kind of self-centred arrogant dick wouldn't at least have an ounce of appreciation for someone else? You'd have to be cocky enough to not send me after another person.

Admittedly, I hang around women less than I hang around men.

In the past, I have shadowed famous people like Einstein, Zuckerberg, Malala... you name it. Ever heard the phrase so and so was "followed by respect"? Yeah, that's me - Respect. I exist but at the same time I don't. Kinda like a ghost, really. 

Repeat the above paragraph three times. You'd figure out some BS understanding on what I'm talking about.

Hey, don't click away yet. This is not a story about me. I'm not even a character in this. In fact, I'd even drop the "I" in the story after this chapter. I'm just an observer, like you. We're gonna read a nice, long tale about a band of ghost hunters that I had to stalk for the longest time ever.

Why? Because they were so damn bad-assed and unapologetic for themselves, these arseholes waltzed around, garnering respect everywhere.

Are you contemplating whether to proceed on with this story? Well, ask yourself - "Would I like reading about Hollywood Undead having abilities and hunting after ghosts while giving zero shits about all the adversities that the Universe throws at them?" If you answered 'water bottle' to that, you are clearly too high to read this. Go to bed before the words start dancing around.

And, hey, Reader, do me a favour and comment on this as much as you want. Why? Because I'm shameless and have no self-respect. I'm _Respect_. I can't trail after myself. What did you think?

Enjoy.

-Respect


	2. The Actual Story

The Hollywood Walk of Fame - A stretch of road dedicated to the biggest names in media. Known for: tourists, names on stars and crowds.

Not known for: Ghosts rampaging the street.

A young office woman with dark brown hair and stiletto heels was ripped from the pavement, swept into the air like a leaf, screaming. She thrashed, struggling against an invisible, winding grapple.

Beneath her expensive heels, people were stampeding as they shoved, kicked, clawed and clambered to escape the sudden, horrific attack by whimsical beasts. Shrieks and screams spiralled into the night sky which glowed a fiery red from massive, clambering flames.

With an awful _crunch_ and _thwack_ , the woman was ripped into a clean two, blood splashing wetly in all directions. The screaming below only grew louder as a metallic red fluid spilt all over the fleeing crowd.

More and more people were snatched from the ground, hauled by a single limb, slashed and ripped apart by paranormal beings. A child's shrill cry and mother's desperate screaming were quickly lost to the cacophony of yells, cries and desperate shrieking.

The assailants were black, swirling masses - Ghosts. They had been invisible against the night sky when they first descended for their attacks, but were now visible, the glow of the fires engulfing buildings slipping through their thready cocoon-like bodies.

One particularly dense cloud of darkness had just whipped up a tourist in Bermudas and slippers when two males suddenly appeared before it - and the ghostly being burst into a heap of flames.

The falling tourist was caught in the arms of another tall, heavily tattooed male.

The first two that had entered the scene were Jorel Decker and Dylan Alvarez. Though they had only appeared for a split second before the ghost, and vanished shortly after, a screenshot from live footage would show Jorel with his arms wrapped around Dylan's waist, as if he had been hefting the other male upwards; and Dylan, who appeared to have been carried by Jorel, having had his palms outstretched towards the beast.

Later footage would show Jorel blinking in and out of existence, snatching civilians to safety, and Dylan bowling at crawler-type of ghosts, which erupted into ash upon contact with his hands.

Unsurprisingly, Jorel Decker had the gift of teleportation - the ability to travel from one place to another in the blink of an eye, and Dylan Alvarez had the blessing of disintegration - which is pretty self-explanatory.

A man howled as his wife was engulfed by a particularly oversized ghost. As everyone had learnt in Cultural Dangers class, she'd be digested by the evil being in a matter of seconds.

George Ragan, the man who had stopped a tourist from having his brains splattered on the ground just a few moments earlier, shoved past the grieving male and took a huge leap, shooting into the air, towards the ghost, _through_ the ghost, and back onto the pavement with the woman in his arms. As the black swirl spun to face him, it was suddenly smashed into the ground, writhing, struggling against an invisible force. A pickup truck casually wandered through the air before slamming heavily onto the mass, the hood caving with a painful metallic shriek. The mass disintegrated.

George Ragan proudly defied gravity. He could increase the strength of the magnetic field at one point while decreasing it at another. Cancelling gravity all together allowed objects to be weightless.

A second ghost had set its sights on George. It released a terrifying howl, one that boomed and echoed, that rattled people down to their teeth, and charged at the man.

George was unimpressed though. He barely flinched as the ghost was crushed to the ground by an invisible force.

The ghost was suddenly rising, black threads spinning as it struggled to return to surface. It shot upwards rapidly, and then shot downwards harshly, forceful enough to splinter the tarred road. 

Again and again, it was slammed into the concrete. A finally hefty _smash_ reduced it to ash.

Barely thirty metres away, Daniel Murillo was standing alone on an empty pathway. He was unimpressed, unaided, chin raised towards the beasts in cool defiance. 

The ghosts were chasing after the crowd of panicked, fleeing people. They raced after them, giggling in their strange, hellish way as they snatched up more and more humans for consumption. They had their backs turned towards him, completely ignoring his presence. Why bother about one lone male so far away behind when there were plenty of easy pickings just below?

They ignored him until a slight, almost insignificant ripple in the air shot by them.

The ghosts halted, freezing. 

They tore away from their original pursuit and rocketed towards the bleached-hair male. He was defenceless - standing there, no weapons in hand - staring, unnerved, at the dark swarms arrowing at a frighteningly fast pace towards him.

The ghosts were barely ten metres away when every single one had a small patch light up on them. The beasts murmured in confusion before they were suddenly blown apart, fire and smoke blasting them into pieces.

Jordon Terrell peeked out from his hiding spot and grinned at Daniel Murillo.

Daniel Murillo was a Lure. A pun on 'allure'. He was capable of attracting ghosts towards him, concentrating them around him for the ease of destruction by others. It was not unlike antibodies agglutinating bacteria for phagocytosis.

Jordon Terrell, quite simply, blew things up. Click, click, boom.

It did not take the band of five long to reduce the attackers into nothing but ash.

People were gaping in awe and crying in relief. A few who had been unfortunate to lose the lives of their loved ones bowled over and sobbed openly on the streets. Ambulances wailed in the distance and blaring sirens of police vehicles neared the scene.

The atmosphere was not unlike one of when a violent storm had passed.

The band of heroes, Hollywood Undead, had regrouped loosely amongst the over-turned cars and on a porthole-filled road. They were murmuring instructions to one another, Ragan clearly in charge as he directed the others. They stepped away from their frail huddle when an wiry elderly woman hobbled over to them, small polite smiles breaking over some members' faces.

The old woman was dressed simply in a shawl, walking painfully with a cane. She took her time, making her way over to the group. HU waited patiently.

"Thank you," the old woman croaked, grasping onto her cane for support, "for saving my grandson."

The members of HU nodded, brushing it off as it being no problem for them, nodding in appreciation of her sincerity. Jorel offered her a lift home to which she politely declined, saying that her grandson would drive her back.

Yet again, they had done it. Hollywood Undead, the most well-known group of ghost-fighters in... Hollywood, had subdued another attack by the vicious beasts. People praised and blessed them, thankful for their quick and efficient intervention.

Tomorrow, news reports dedicated to these heroes would be blown up all over the internet before dying down in a week. At least, until the next attack.

As the band began to leave the scene, via a pick up truck driven by a guy named Brian Cox, people stared at them, some still in shock, some in wonder, some praising and gratefully thanking them.

_I stretched out, slowly diffusing into the civilians who had survived the attack, rooting myself deep inside of them._

Yet another bought of humans were filled with deep respect for the group known as Hollywood Undead.

**Author's Note:**

> Eesh. Parents are fighting again I'll just go bury myself in work now.


End file.
